


Proverbs 16:18

by gayfishman, Vrunka



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Divergence, Illustrated, M/M, Pining, Torture, dick stepping, gratuitous use of religious imagery, unrequited incest, ’no arrest’ ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 08:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14132022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayfishman/pseuds/gayfishman, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: He’s preaching when they come for Him. Three men in uniform. Three strangers in the temple. Three prideful soldiers to make Him kneel as they did the prophet who came before Him.





	Proverbs 16:18

**Author's Note:**

> The game has been out for all of like three days but what can I say, I’m absolutely thirsty for John...
> 
> Canon divergence for the “”secret”” ending where the Rookie does not arrest Seed.
> 
> “Pride leads to destruction and arrogance to downfall” Proverbs 16:18

He’s preaching when they come for him. John watches his brother watching the three strangers as they move forward toward him. Men in uniform. Pharisees. Foot soldiers.

Jospeh faces them calmly. With dignity. With a strength and peacefulness John himself can only emulate. Admire.

Covet.

A sin, a sin.

But among so many other more perilous ones it’s hard to even consider it one.

Joseph holds his hands forward. His skin in the light is luminous, vibrant. Angelic.

The scars on his shoulder blades stretch. His spine is a column, John traces it with his eyes to where it disappears into the fitted waistband of Joseph’s black dress pants. He drags his eyes away.

He wipes the sin of it from his mind.

The smallest man of the group. Wide-eyed, shaking. Is stepping forward. Encouraged by his fellows. He is pallid under the beard, sweating.

Sinner sweats.

A whore in a church.

He’s holding the handcuffs and his hands are jittery, jittery.

“Rook,” the man to right says, firmly. Hissing. Caiaphas. “What are you waiting on, man, do it. Cuff the bastard.”

Rook shakes his head. He swallows. His throat is trembling, Adam’s apple bobbing.

And Joseph serene. Joseph is so, so very calm.

When the sherif steps forward, it’s like it all comes crashing down. The rookie’s face falls, his lip trembles. The others begin to leave, the leader is putting up a fight, a chest-puffing show. John would shoot him to put him in his place, but Joseph’s way is subtler. All the more menacing.

He touches the rookie’s shoulder before he can leave.

“Rook,” he says, the deep timber of his voice shakes even the strongest sinner to their very core. Here is no different.

The rookie’s eyes go wide, wide, wide. His cheeks under the beard are scarlet.

He looks away.

Joseph says no more.

They depart, but they will return, most likely with more. Most likely with guns. Soldiers.

It matters not.

This is the way things are meant to be; are the way Joseph has seen them.

—

“You spoke to him,” John says. “Why did you deign to speak to someone so steeped in sin?”

Joseph’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. Not many dare to question him. Perhaps he can sense the lingering sulk in John’s tone.

The rookie had come back three days later. He wears their insignia now. John has seen him once or twice. All nerves. He hasn’t been cleansed yet. The baptism will come though.

John will gladly usher it.

“Are you to be the one to cast the first stone,” Joseph asks. “That’s supposed to be Jacob’s job. He is my hot head.”

John bites his lip. He curls his fingers to press his nails into his palm. “It just seems dangerous, is all. He’s a federal marshal. He’s...a fuckin’ liability. He’s—“

“Seeking redemption.” Finality in it. Brooking no more questions. Joseph tilts his head. Loose hairs at the base of his neck catch the light. Radiant. A halo.

John’s fingers dig harder, a bright line of pain. Stigmata. Blood under the nails. He relaxes his fist.

Joseph isn’t fucking him. Probably. Probably. The rookie isn’t as important as all that.

“When do you want me to—“

Joseph shakes his head. “Soon,” he says. “Patience,” he says. He touches John’s neck, tugs until their foreheads touch. Just once. So lightly. “You must trust me,” he says, “for I would never lead you astray, my dear brother.”

John swallows. His throat sticks like something coated in sand. Gummy. Cracked. “I do trust you.”

Joseph smiles. Beatific. John would burn the world for that smile, for the praise in it, the affirmation. “Rooks have their place, just like all chess pieces.” Joseph touches John’s chin, thumb sliding through the hair smooth and easy. John will not think of it as petting, though he aches to.

Aches to think of his brother touching him this soft way after-after—

He bites his lip and the motion causes Joseph to move. Claim his hand back as his own. Coveting again, that sharp edge of longing. John closes his eyes.

He will carve the word into the flesh of his thigh later. Five little letters, seventeen strokes. Covet. His sin. His greatest.

—

Rookie comes to him on a Wednesday.

Shirtless.

An Eden’s Gate tattoo, shiny and fresh and healing on his pec. Right above his heart. He is skinnier than he had looked when arresting Jospeh. More sharp angles. Ribs John can nearly count.

“You’re John Seed,” he says. It’s a question John does not expect. Usually people only ask about Joseph at this step. Still enamored by his aura, his calm, his everything.

John nods. “You’re the rookie who was gonna arrest him.”

Rook flushes. He looks down. Pride, it’s there, beneath the surface. The first sin he’ll wear. Right along his collar bone. “I could have,” he says, pride on his tongue, he’ll learn, he’ll learn, “but I didn’t. I...I didn’t want to.”

John blinks. “What?”

“I didn’t want to. I looked in his eyes and I...I believed him. God wouldn’t let him be arrested. God moved through me to stop it.”

John picks up the knife. The edge flashes. Rook does not tremble as John begins the carving.

Pride.

Pride.

Rook hiccups as he finishes the ‘e’, the point of the knife catches, drags a little too far. Rook’s fingers lift to press against the bleeding flesh. They tangle with John’s.

The knife clatters to the floor.

Blood splatter on the hardwood.

The plastic John works over crinkles under their boots.

“Sorry,” Rook says. His fingers squeeze. There are tears in the corners of his eyes.

“We atone through pain, not apologies,” John says. He pulls his fingers out from under Rook’s, flicks the blood from them with ruthless efficiency.

“Joseph says that too. You’re very much alike, you know.”

Not enough alike.

Not enough.

John picks up his knife.

Cuts the word pride into Rook’s bicep his belly. Rook doesn’t fight him. He doesn’t even try. He chokes out a noise when the knife digs deep. There are tears on his cheeks, catching in his beard. The folding chair vibrates with his shaking, but he does not try to face away from his punishment.

His cleansing.

Out of breath, sweating, John leans his head against Rook’s knee. A stain, slick and dark in the jean. John wipes at it idly and only serves to leave a trail of blood where he touches.

His hands are a war-zone. Blood in the creases of his knuckles. Usually he wears gloves, plastic and efficient. This was too personal.

This was his love.

He stands.

Rook’s hands find his wrists. Trembling as they hold him.

“Just give me a second,” he says. “Please.”

John doesn’t understand what he means until his knees shift apart. The plastic squeaks beneath his feet. His erection presses a shameful tent to the front of his jeans.

John stares at it.

He stares.

This is new. Absolutely new. This doesn’t happen here. Sometimes on Bliss maybe it does, sends the wrong signal down the wrong path and leads to an embarrassing scene. But this does not happen here.

This does not happen to John.

The wound has started to go dry and tacky on Rook’s collar. The flesh rising in waves over the word John cut into him.

“Are you thinking of a girlfriend,” John asks. “A wife? Someone you left behind?”

Rook looks at him. He smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle. “You can add lust,” he says. “But it’s not...there’s no one...out there for me. Hasn’t been for a long time.”

“There was once?”

“There always is, isn’t there? Young love. Foolish mistakes.”

John shakes his head. “I won’t make you carry that,” he says. “What were you thinking of?”

“Nothing. The end of it all. It just happens.” He looks old enough it should not ‘just happen’. Old enough to be a marshal; old enough to have some grip on his hormones. John counts his ribs. John traces the line of his throat.

“Were you thinking of The Father?”

“Is that really what you want to hear about?”

John rolls his shoulders. The answer is a loaded gun; he’s not about to trust someone like this with it. Someone so prideful, who would think it means something.

“When I...I’ve never taken it so far,” Rook says. “That’s what I was thinking about. I’ve fucked around a lot, handcuffs and light teasing pain but...there’s always a safeword. An out. I don’t...don’t have one here and it’s...”

He looks down at his own lap. His eyebrows flex. Sinner. Sinner. John isn’t sure himself if he can wrestle Rook out from under the weight of it.

Joseph would say such self-doubts are why John isn’t ready. Joseph is so self-assured in all things. John wavers in indecision at the wrong times. The wrong places.

Like here.

He does not know what to do. His gut rolls, tight with anxiety. He is not enigmatic and all knowing like Joseph. He can’t be. He’s blunt. He’s efficient. Straightforward.

A rook.

A matching set.

He moves, suddenly, lifts his foot to press it against Rook’s crotch. He can’t feel the heat from Rook’s erection; but he imagines that he can. Rook’s eyes widen, his mouth opens. His hips twitch, rolling his cock against the sole of John’s foot.

“Oh shit,” he mutters.

His hands hang at his sides. Not fighting it. John changes the pressure, flexing his ankle just slightly to counterbalance Rook’s thrusts.

Rook’s head tips back. That skinny neck, the smattering of stubble he needs to shave. The cuts that will be scars. The tattoo that matches Joseph’s.

John hates him, suddenly. Viciously. Rook. Joseph. Both of them. He presses harder and Rook’s hands raise to grasp at his knee. Fingers scrabbling against the inseam, catching in the material. Still not stopping him, just clutching, white-knuckled.

Panting.

Groaning.

His eyes closed. Imagining...anything. Anything.

“Who are you thinking of?” John asks.

“You,” Rook says. It’s a gasp. A shuddering inhale.

And not the right answer.

“I’ll add liar it will look good on your ribs.”

“‘M not lying. You’re—“ his voice dies, rolls over into a keening groan.

John will never find out what Rook thinks he is.

Orgasm washes the sentence out of existence. John watches the force of it erode Rook’s very being, his whole body snapping taut, convulsion-like. His eyes rolling back in his head.

There is sweat tickling John’s temple. He wipes it away before remembering how bloody his hands are.

Shaking, shaken, John steps back. He doesn’t know where to categorize this. What to write to purge it from him. A pride to match Rook’s perhaps. Greed. Covetous again. Too many variables. It is any and all of those things.

Rook is watching him. Hollow-eyed. Still scraping himself back together it seems. He smiles, vacant. A dose of Bliss times a hundred. “That was,” he starts to say.

“You’re supposed to be atoning. We’re done here. Go to the river, Faith will baptize you.”

Rook stares at him. His feet shuffle on the plastic. It must be uncomfortable and sticky in his pants, he winces every time his knees start to come together. “Okay,” he says.

“Will you come and watch?” he asks.

If Joseph requires it of him. John does not say this. He says, “You’re not that special. You’re prideful. You’ll learn.”

“I will,” Rook says. “You’ll guide me.”

So assured.

Self-assured.

John’s fingers twitch.

He leaves before it can get more awful than it already is.

—

He’s on his hands and knees with the weight of another person leveled across his back. Their chest hair itching on his bare skin. Large hands pressed over his own, gripping.

Fucking into him. Sweat and lube and rough, rough thrusts. Short from the angle of their bodies, not deep enough.

John groans.

He arches his back.

“You like this?” Rook asks and the moment is shattered. John doesn’t learn his lessons; too optimistic that Rook could stay fucking quiet and let him keep his fantasy.

Joseph would never fuck him like this. Would never fuck him.

It stings in John’s gut. Curdles in his throat.

Rook sits up, hands moving to hold John’s hips, driving into him at a more satisfying angle. Alighting the nerves along his spine. Twitching pleasure searing through his cock.

A double-edged sword. He hates that he is enjoying this. Hates that he could not turn Rook away when Rook came seeking confession. After the last time it only could have ended up like this.

Something in the way Rook carries himself, inspiring the people around the compound, is too much like Joseph. The parallels are uncanny.

Joseph was once too full of pride. Viewed from the wrong angle he still could be seen that way.

“Fuck,” Rook groans, fingers digging harder, there will be bruises. “Nn you’re so quiet, John. You—“ he takes a shuddering breath. “You alive down there?”

He was attempting to set an example.

How he wanted this to go. Just quiet breathing and the slap of flesh on flesh. Joseph would not need showy, flashy panting.

The thrusts slow, Rook’s hand touches the back of his neck. Fingers wrapping around to cup his chin, guiding him to look over his shoulder at Rook’s concerned face.

“I’m not dead, you fucking idiot,” he says.

Rook smiles. His teeth aren’t perfectly white or perfectly straight. Not perfection. Not the way John wants it to be.

“You aren’t enjoying this though. Should we stop? Will you tell me it’s wrong?”

Where Eden’s Gate stands on the morals of sex is a grey area. Homosexual relations even more so. Joseph doesn’t preach celibacy and he doesn’t preach hellfire; but John thinks he would probably have something to say about this.

“You talk too much,” John says. He shivers when Rook pulls out, too quick and too sloppy. Leaves him feeling too open, aching.

“Will you talk to me?” Rook asks.

“No.”

He can still feel the heat from Rook’s body. Their bare skin inches apart. Electric, magnetic need still coursing through his muscles. A tired, lazy drawl.

He can sense indecision in the way Rook waits. Hesitation.

Rook’s fingers touch the cuts on the inside of his thigh. Not enough time has passed for it to scar. Rook’s fingers trace the word, pain with each catch of his nail against it.

“Would you talk to me if I was Joseph?” he asks.

How can he ask that?

Shame and indignation flood through John in equal measure. He pulls away from the touch. Rushes to gather his clothes.

“John,” Rook says. Stern. His voice deep. He holds John’s wrist. Pride in his motions, on his collar, his stomach. Put there by John; he’s supposed to be trying to get better.

“You don’t know anything about me,” John says. He hates how much it sounds like something a child would say.

Rook reels him in. Strength John isn’t expecting from someone that skinny, thin muscles, lean. “I would if you’d let me. Joseph put us together for a reason, didn’t he?”

John shakes his head. “You should call him The Father. He isn’t—“

Isn’t Joseph to you.

Or is he?

John doesn’t know. He can’t know. But he can imagine. His brain unfurls the thought of the two of them, locked together in the dark. Similar shoulders, similar skinny hips. Rutting together.

Even a rook has their place.

John’s stomach clenches.

He pushes until the two of them topple over, maneuvers until Rook’s cock is once again pressing into his body. He fucks himself on it. The burn is easily overcome, easy as breathing, natural. Rook’s fingers clench and curl on his thighs.

“John,” he grunts. Voice catching.

John doesn’t want to hear it. He covers Rook’s mouth. Arches his back and takes his pleasure. He keeps his eyes locked on Rook’s the whole time. Rook’s eyes are blue and clear. A coincidence. It means nothing.

John moves, working a rhythm that is too fast, he won’t be able to maintain it. His thighs are already beginning to ache. He curls forward, touches his forehead to Rook’s, huffing a rough exhale against his own knuckles when Rook’s hands raise to support him.

The end of it, when it comes, isn’t fully unexpected, telegraphed in the way heat unfolds with a finality in John’s gut. Rook’s hands shaking in their hold.

John comes across their stomachs. The mess it makes is a secondary worry. Peripheral.

Rook is still hard inside of him. It’s more of a concern.

He moves his hand, Rook’s breath leaves him in a hiss. His beard sweaty from John’s palm. He seems to take it as permission, sits up, dragging John against him.

He kisses John’s chin and his cheek and his lips as his pace renews, fucking up into John’s oversensitive body. The pleasure numbs him, works through his muscles leaving them feeling heavy and hazy. Lethargic.

Sort of painful.

Rook’s lips demand answer. Weakly, John gives it, kisses back. Rook’s mouth tastes like coffee, too strong and too burnt.

Too real.

John shakes against him. Another orgasm, soft and dry, his cock twitching feebly between the two of them. Unable to do anything else. He’s unable to do anything as Rook comes, pushing deep, deep. Like he belongs there.

Rook’s fingers, stroking through his beard in the afterglow. The quiet moment as they catch their breath, chests moving in tandem.

At peace.

It isn’t right.

It shouldn’t be this way. Not with some...replacement.

And yet.

And yet.

John thumbs along the pride he first carved. Rook nuzzles his nose along John’s hairline, his normal slicked-back style all pulled out of place, wet with sweat.

John breathes.

And John breathes.

And the regret does not come. So he stands, shaking, and he allows Rook to catch him when his knees almost give. He allows it. He allows it.

Because he has always coveted his brother.

But he’s never been above settling for second best.


End file.
